Waking Dream
by Lalacier
Summary: He is choking on dust and fear (and in the back of his mind there is a voice screaming—) (wake up!)


He is choking on dust and fear. His throat is dry; his chest constricts; his stomach roils and his knees buckle.

_(and in the back of his mind there is a voice screaming—)_

He has never seen the sky. _(wait—)_ He was born here. Midgar is his home. And though he's spent years wondering about the beyond, dreaming of the what-ifs of life without the Plate _(wait, no—)_, he never wanted this.

He sees the sky now. A blue brighter than he's ever seen _(no—)_ has replaced the grey. Clouds _(cloud—?) _drift along, steady as they please, and they look soft, so utterly edible, like the cotton candy he sees the richer children of Shinra employees eating _(like me—?)_. They are floating on, without a care in the world.

He is choking on dust and fear.

He isn't looking at the sky. All the years he's waited to catch a glimpse _(no, no—)_ and right now his eyes are rooted firmly to the ground. He can't look away. Like a car crash.

Like a Plate crash.

Dust swirls at his feet and in his mouth. It's settling, the air thinning until his eyes can make out shapes at last. The scene is wrong. Before, there were houses, one story high, two stories; there were proper shops and there were market stalls fashioned out of poles and sheets of tarpaulin; there was a cacophony of height and depth that made him forget just how far above the Plate sat. _(wait—)_ Now, it has been razed to the ground. The houses are flattened. The market stalls are gone. The landscape is a knife-edge of debris and all that's above is negative space.

His bones are lead but he steps forward. Just once.

Glass crunches under his toes. It's deafening. It's the only sound in this void. All the stories _(movies—?)_ tell of screaming children and orders barked from brave men rushing in. In reality, there is nothing. There is no one else but him.

Everybody's too dead to shout.

Except, there is something. It's faint at first, little more than a buzzing whisper. He steps forward again—crunch, goes the glass—and again—snap, goes the wood. It grows louder with each step. He steps over the carcass of a toy shop he used to visit. _(didn't i—?)_ He pauses to run his hand along the mangled skeleton of the playframe he used to climb. _(i did—)_ He walks the length of the sign, rusted and marred, that reads 'SECTOR SEVEN'.

There is a voice—

And it gets louder as he walks—

And it says—

"Breaking news: Shinra News can confirm that the terrorist group known as AVALANCHE is responsible for the attack on Sector Seven. A short while ago, AVALANCHE planted explosives at the base of the Plate support pillar. The following explosion has lef to the collapse of the pillar and the destruction of Sector Seven. The exact number of casualties is currently unknown but aid is on its way. Agents of the Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department are currently in pursuit of members of AVALANCHE. These are highly dangerous individuals and must not be approached. We will bring you more updates as information becomes available—"

He stops beside a radio, the radio that is playing the news bulletin _(how—?)_. He stoops down, to turn it off because he doesn't need to hear this, because just look. He can see the devastation around him. He's breathing in the dust and the acrid smell of smoke and the tang of blood. He can see it with his eyes and he can taste it on his tongue and he can smell death in his nose and he can hear it in the silence in his ears. _(no, i never—) _He doesn't need to be reminded.

There is a hand. Right there, next to the radio.

He recoils so violently he falls flat on his back. Dust puffs up around him and he chokes. His chest is tight. Tears sting the corners of his eyes.

Because he knows that hand.

He knows that wedding band.

He knows that red manicure she always wore.

And he knows that hand she's clutching, with its ink stains and bitten nails, the Shinra-issued watch he used to be perfectly on time.

Panic floods through him so violently he doesn't know what's hit him. He vomits right there on the floor.

His parents, dead.

His hands are shaking so badly he can't grip the rocks and debris covering their bodies. He needs to get them out. If only he could get them out, get them out so they can breathe, they'll be fine. They'll be fine. He'll be fine.

He's clawing away at their blanket of rubble, hands torn and bloody, when he hears footsteps. Slow and heavy, amplified by the emptiness of the sector, they come closer.

Aid—it must be Shinra. They must be here to help. They must be going slow to check for other survivors, to check the integrity of their path. Yes, of course. But if they aren't quick, he won't be able to help his parents. They need to get out.

He stands back from his parents' graves—

And there's a voice—

And it says—

"Shinra News has received information regarding the AVALANCHE members currently being pursued by agents of the Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department."

And there's a man—

Walking away from him—

So he yells, "Help! You've got to help me!"

And the voice is saying—

"We must remind you that these individuals are terrorists and will not hesitate to harm you. Stay indoors and do not approach."

His footsteps are slow and heavy, and he's walking away—

So he screams, "They're dying! They're dead! Help me!"

And the voice is saying—

"The female has long black hair, approximately five foot five in height, wearing a white cropped top and black skirt—"

And the man stops—

And he's crying now, "I'm alone... Why won't you do something!"

And the voice is saying—

"The second male is the most dangerous, and must not be approached under any circumstance."

The man turns—

And the voice is saying—

"He is blonde, five foot seven—"

And he stops shouting. He stops crying.

"He is wearing a SOLDIER First Class uniform and has the Mako eyes, but we must reiterate that he is _not _affiliated with Shinra—"

_(this isn't real)_

_(wake up)_

The man is blonde. He locks eyes with him, and even from this distance he can see the glow of the brightest blue he's ever seen, brighter even than the sky. The outfit is worn and dusty, but undeniable: SOLDIER First Class.

_(no—)_

_(this isn't real)_

He is choking on dust and fear.

_(and in the back of his mind is a voice screaming—)_

_(you're dreaming!)_

_(this isn't how it happened!)_

His throat is dry; his chest constricts.

_(denzel...)_

His stomach roils and his knees buckle.

_(denzel!)_

And he's shaking.

He is shaking.

Strong hands grip his shoulders. Fingertips press into his bones, not enough to hurt, but enough to register in the hazy land between waking and sleep. He hears his name once more—"Denzel!"—and another rough shake.

His eyes snap open.

And there, the man from his dreams.

His body stiffens; blue eyes soften.

In the dark of the room, deep in the dead of night, he can just make out the man before him. His blonde hair is sleep-mussed. His eyes glow the brightest blue he's ever seen (that part was true), but the dark shade underneath tells of a long day out on the road. He isn't wearing the SOLDIER uniform, just a simple cotton t-shirt and shorts.

It's a man he doesn't have to be afraid of.

"It's alright," Cloud says, his voice low and thick with sleep and concern. He sits at the edge of his bed, one hand never leaving his shoulder, a tether to reality. "I'm here."


End file.
